Pipeweed
by Mantida
Summary: Summary: What might Gimli have been doing while in Rivendell? And what were his first impressions of Legolas?


**Pipeweed**

Gimli was bored out of his mind. Dwarves were not designed for days and weeks of doing _nothing_. Singing and story-telling were all very well, but _after_ work, not _instead_ of it. And his mail and axe could take only so much cleaning. What on earth were they waiting for? When the Council had ended, and Glóin and the rest of the Erebor delegation had left Rivendell, Gimli had expected that he, the chosen representative of his race to accompany the Ringbearer, would be soon on his way, too. Instead, he had been trapped in this place for more than a month now, waiting for Mahal knew what.

Rivendell, pleasant to look at as it was, was slowly starting to unnerve him. Or, rather, its inhabitants did. His opinion on the elves had not been not high to begin with, and had not improved on closer contact. Definitely not his company of choice. Most of them were condescending. Some (who were, in his opinion, preferable) were outright rude. And even those who were polite enough seemed half asleep and too wrapped in themselves to pay attention to anything or anyone outside their heads. Supposedly they could snap out of it when a direct action was required, and Gimli sincerely hoped this was indeed the case, considering that they were for sure going to saddle him for the quest with at least one elf, or perhaps several. Better if they were of any use in emergency. However, on everyday basis, their behaviour made him care even less for their company than they cared for his.

Their lord was slightly better in this respect. He seemed sad and preoccupied but didn't have this air of total self-absorption so characteristic of the elves. But – Gimli realized – Elrond was not an elf. He had a broader frame, stronger features, and one evening even something that looked like a shadow of stumble. Of course it was foolish of him to be so surprised, but when one had always heard the name 'Elrond Half-Elven' repeated in one breath, one tended to forget what the surname actually _meant_. Never mind, elf or no elf, no one could realistically expect Lord Elrond to have time to entertain one of the many guests in his house, and not the most distinguished one, either. And Gimli did not.

With his host's permission he had visited Rivendell's foundries and there, at least, he had been greeted with genuine interest and even joy. On his part, he was also curious and, to say the truth, not a little awed, to meet the craftsmen who remembered the legendary smiths of Hollin. Initially they also seemed glad to see someone of his race once more. However, their welcome soon waned. Gimli couldn't hold this against them: there was never a smith born on earth or underneath who liked spectators, and race, apparently, had nothing to do with that. And he had to admit that he had met with far warmer welcome than any elf could have expected in the foundries of Erebor. If the hypothetical elf had been let in there at all, that is.

In this situation, the hobbits were the only salvation. Bilbo's courage, wit, good humour and hospitability were unanimously praised by all Refounders of Erebor and Gimli had looked forward to meeting him. However, Bilbo was very busy with his writings, and could spare little time to talk to him. Moreover, it turned out that Bilbo, through a remarkable person indeed, looked very old now, and tired easily. It was sad that men and hobbits waned so fast. Bilbo couldn't be older than himself. However, the presence of the younger hobbits more than made up for this disappointment. Apparently, Bilbo's qualities were shared by more of his folk.

Just now he had finally managed to pull Merry away from the table, and was sitting with the hobbit on the bench under the arcade surrounding one of Rivendell's courtyards. At the beginning they had also the company of Pippin who, however, started at some point to yawn terribly, and, after nearly falling off the bench for a second time, decided to go and take an after-dinner nap. Merry, apparently, was either more resistant, or marginally less full of elven food than his younger cousin, and he and Gimli were now engrossed in comparing smoking habits among hobbits and dwarves, and discussing pipeweed. Not that he had much to say on the last subject when compared to the Hobbit. Merry turned out to be a veritable treasury of knowledge on 'the leaf', as he called it. Gimli was amazed. Up to now, pipeweed was pipeweed for him, and it turned out that there were at least thirty varieties of it, each with a different, strange-sounding name.

Their pleasant and informative talk ended with a nasty surprise for Gimli. Merry presented him with a pinch of his own pipeweed, which had proven to be very good, so it was only polite to reciprocate. Merry tasted Gimli's weed, was not too impressed, and asked about its origin and cost. On receiving this information, the Hobbit gave a long whistle, looked at him with pity, and informed Gimli that if he had ventured into the Shire, he would have bought far superior pipeweed for about a quarter of what he had to pay in Bree.

''In a shop or inn, on retail prices.'' he clarified. ''I'm not talking about wholesale buying. They must keep special prices for foreigners in Bree. No way local people would agree to pay that much. A daylight robbery, if you ask me.''

Gimli, ruefully, had to agree. Fair profit was fair profit, but this was exorbitant. And he had thought he had been driving a hard bargain!

He didn't have time to muse long on the cunning of the Bree traders. An elf was crossing the quadrangle, evidently going in their direction. The sun was in Gimli's eyes, so he didn't recognize this particular elf until it was too late to retreat.

Blond hair, grey eyes. The Mirkwood Elf to whom his father had taken this instant dislike. Good thing that he was blond, otherwise Gimli wasn't sure if he would be able to know again this Legolas person, who was now clad similarly to the Rivendell elves. To say the truth, he still had some troubles distinguishing one elf from another. Most of them looked completely identical to him. His father, apparently, had not have this problem, judging from the grimace of distaste which had been appearing on Glóin's face each time he had said his eyes on the Mirkwood Elf. Which, fortunately, was not often, since even at the beginning of their stay in Rivendell the Elf had kept vanishing for days, and now was practically never there.

Personally, Gimli considered his father was slightly biased here, although it was not his place to say so. The Elf looked inoffensive, as elves went, and it was not just to hold him responsible for his place of birth or parentage. And, from what Gimli remembered of the late King Thorin's temper, the blame for their imprisonment in Mirkwood was hardly likely to be so completely one-sided as it had been presented to him. Dwalin, for example, practically had admitted that himself.

The Elf approached them, smiling to Merry, but casting quick, wary looks sideways at Gimli as if he expected him to attack him on sight, or start yelling, or perhaps explode with a bang. Gimli, although vaguely offended at that, tried to look neutral, hiding as well as he could his irritation at that intrusion. Mirkwood Elf or no Mirkwood Elf, nobody was going to say that Dwarves were discourteous to their fellow guests – as long as the Elf behaved himself.

''Please excuse me interrupting your talk, but am I talking to Master Meriadoc Brandybuck?''

''That's me,'' Merry answered, smiling. ''Only, nobody uses my full name, except in written documents. I'm called Merry.''

''This is a fair name indeed, Master Merry. Mine is Legolas of Mirkwood.''

Yes, Legolas son of Thranduil, Glóin had made sure that Gimli bore that fact well in mind. Well, let's be fair, nobody chose their parents. But had the Elf to seek Merry's company? He had the whole Rivendell swarming with other elves to talk to. Couldn't he leave the hobbits alone?

The Elf must have caught his not very welcoming look, and inquired once more, with an almost un-elven display of tact, if he was not intruding. He was. But Merry courteously denied it. Well, nothing could be done about this. Perhaps the Elf would soon go away.

Unfortunately, nothing indicated that this would happen in predictable future. The Elf was there to stay. He sat himself comfortably on the bench, stretched his incredibly long legs, and started talking.

''Frodo was telling during the Council about your adventures in the woods you call, and rightly it seems, Old Forest. Could you tell me what stories your people tell about it?''

A typical exhibition of the elven sensitivity. The poor boy had been trapped in the tree, he would have nightmares for the rest of his life because of that experience, but the Elf had to pry.

Merry hesitated.

''There are some stories told in Buckland... But what can I tell you about the Old Forest that you can't learn from the elves here?''

''People of Rivendell do not venture there nowadays. And I'm curious what the lore of your folk tells about this forest. I was told that you are the one who should know most about it.''

What could be interesting in a forest was anybody's guess. But at least the Elf was bright enough to realize that a mortal also might have something interesting to say. That, in Gimli's experience, was rare.

Merry, still looking doubtful, started to tell stories about moving, and perhaps even talking, trees, which attacked the hedges and were scared only with fire (the Elf frowned on this, but said nothing). All this unpleasantly reminded Gimli of the horror stories half-remembered from his long gone childhood. Never mind Merry, any more of this talk about people-eating trees, and he would start having nightmares himself. At any rate, it all sounded pretty much like sheer rubbish to Gimli, and, judging from Merry's hesitancy, to the hobbit, too. However, the Elf kept asking new questions and apparently was making some sense of it, although what sense, Gimli couldn't guess.

The subject held little interest for him and definitely was not pleasant. Gimli was tempted to leave and polish his armour once more, when the Hobbit realized that they had been excluding him from the conversation, and steered it back to the pipeweed. Now, Gimli had expected the Elf to say outright that this subject bored him, as was the charming habit of his race on such occasions, and to go away, but amazingly, the Elf seemed still interested.

''I have seen Mithrandir, whom you call Gandalf, making smoke from a thing like this one,'' Legolas pointed to the pipe. ''How do you call this?''

''A pipe,'' Gimli answered succinctly.

''Like a musical instrument?'' The elf asked.

''Like an instrument.''

''Gandalf makes amazing smoke rings,'' Merry said wistfully. ''I have seen them for the first time when I was that small, and I thought it was the most wonderful thing on earth. Even better than his fireworks.''

''Gandalf's smoke rings,'' the Elf repeated. ''Yes, children in Mirkwood were fascinated by them, too.''

"It was the same in Erebor." Gimli found himself saying.

For a while, none of them said anything, but the silence was almost... companionable, absurd as the thought might have been.

Merry started to stuff his pipe. The Elf was looking at him with curiosity.

''Would you like to try it for yourself?'' Merry offered him unexpectedly. ''I have a spare pipe here.''

Merry, Gimli thought, you have a lot to learn about elves. You have probably mortally offended him. They consider themselves far above such common pleasures.

He was for the shock of his life. The Elf took the offered pipe in his fingers and sniffed experimentally at it.

''The smell is pleasant enough.''

"It is indeed," Merry nodded, "but you are supposed to put it in your mouth."

The Elf followed the instructions, still with expectant smile. A moment later the smile was wiped out, and Gimli was blessed with the rare sight of an elf in a long spell of violent coughing, which turned into a laugh.

''Yavanna! This is like inhaling all the smoke needed to cure a wide boar at once! And your people do this for pleasure?''

And Gimli couldn't help laughing in return.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JRR Tolkien. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

**Author notes:** Beta-read by Mogs (ages ago) and by Soledad. It may be a start of a series.


End file.
